Lestrade? We've Got a Problem
by OhMyScience
Summary: Set during A Scandal in Belgravia. How DID John get a drugged Sherlock home? All rights belong to the BBC.


D.I. Lestrade's office phone rang, halting the case filing he had been doing. He reached over, blindly picking up the phone. "Hello?" he opted for a short, less professional greeting. He had been having a long, tedious day. There were far too many cases to file.

"Lestrade, it's John Watson," the voice on the other line said quickly. "We've got a bit of a problem."

"Hm. What did he do this time then?" Lestrade asked, referring to the rather annoying consulting detective.

"Well, Sherlock's gone and gotten himself drugged." John replied. From the background there came a slurred groan. "John . . ." the deep baritone voice undoubtedly belonged to Sherlock Holmes. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm going to get you back to the flat. Just . . . stay there," John's voice was muffled, indicating he tried to cover the speaker of his phone with his hand.

Lestrade sighed. "John I've got a lot of case-work to do. Certainly Sherlock has had drugs in his system before; what do you want me to do about it?"

There was silence on the other end before John spoke again. "Considering Sherlock has done numerous things for you and your team, I thought the least you could do was help me help Sherlock by driving us back to 221B. We can't take a bloody cab, and we sure as hell aren't taking the tube," he said in a hard voice, level and threatening.

Lestrade sat back and rubbed his temple. "Right then. Where are –"

"Dammit!" John exclaimed suddenly. Sirens blared in the background, followed by another "John!" from Sherlock, louder this time.

"What is going on?" Lestrade said confusedly, putting his mobile in his pocket and grabbing his squad car keys.

"Never mind that, just . . . I'll text you the address. I've to deal with all this," John said hurriedly. There was a soft _click_ on the other end. John had hung up.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ Lestrade thought as he left his office, locking the door behind him.

…

John pushed the _end call_ button on his phone. He quickly texted details to Lestrade the slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Multiple sirens were blaring all at once; doors slamming, footsteps pounding their way to the building. The army doctor was stumped. He looked at the door, at Sherlock on the floor, and back at the door. He couldn't just leave the man there . . . but he had to talk to the police as well. Not to mention that woman – Kate, was it? – still out cold a few feet away.

Suddenly, Sergeant Donovan burst into the room, silencing John's thoughts. She gave him an annoyed look. "Of course. What's wrong with him?" she said, nodding her head in Sherlock's direction.

"Nice to see you too," John muttered. "He's not your problem right now. Downstairs in the small sitting room off the hallway you'll find three Americans; two are knocked out, one's killed from a gunshot. I'd probably check that out. They did break in here," he said, wanting more than anything for Sally to leave and for Lestrade to get his arse down to Irene's house. "And I suppose the paramedics will want to take a look at her," John said, gesturing to Kate.

Sally scoffed at him. "Right," she said turning to leave. "Just make sure you take care of your . . . boyfriend over there."

"Not. A. Couple." John spat at her retreating form. She was being particularly rude, more than her usual snarky comments. He heard more footsteps downstairs, muffled snippets of conversations.

"John," Sherlock slurred for the third time, attempting to get to where John was standing.

"No. No, Sherlock, don't get up," John warned, unsure of what to _do_ with him. He went to kneel by him. Sherlock's face was starting to bruise a bit. It was obvious he was fighting the drug. His eyelids wanted to close, but Sherlock would shake it off. His eyes were unfocused. Every attempt he made at getting up ending within the same few seconds it had started. John reached over and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. His pulse, John noticed after a few moments, had remained quite normal, save for the fact it was now slowing due to the drug.

Sherlock turned his head to the window Irene had fallen out of. Then he looked back up at John. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Where's . . . but she . . ." he babbled, clearly out of it.

"She's gone, Sherlock. Did you hear that? Lestrade's coming to fetch us, and then you'll be home soon," John said as clearly and soothingly as possible. Sherlock showed no sign that he had heard John speak.

_Hurry up Greg, for God's sake._

..

About 15 minutes later, Lestrade showed up. A paramedic had briefly helped John tend to Sherlock and had gone. Lestrade made his way past the few remaining inspectors, passing Donovan on the way to the upstairs bedroom.

"Wait 'till you see him," she said amusedly.

He found his way to the bedroom quickly enough, entering it to see Sherlock Holmes on the floor, John Watson kneeling beside him. John glanced up, noticing Lestrade had entered.

"Good, you're here. Right, well . . . I'm probably going to need some help with this one," he said, rubbing his neck.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock sprawled on the floor, a cut on his cheek. He was muttering something about a woman, a boomerang . . . ? "Help you do _what_, exactly?"

…

John sat in the back of Lestrade's squad car, grateful for a seat. Getting Sherlock down the stairs and into the car had been a challenge, even with Greg carrying half of Sherlock's weight. But the old army doctor knew limp bodies were more difficult to carry than conscious ones. Fortunately they were on their way back to 221B, familiar streets passing by as John glanced out the window.

Sherlock half sat, half slumped against John, still muttering incoherently but obviously falling asleep from the stair ordeal. He sighed, his body leaning more into John and his head falling to rest on the doctor's shoulder. He moaned something about how John shouldn't leave; John needed to stay.

John awkwardly patted Sherlock's knee. "It's all right, I'm here. You're . . . fine," he said quietly, color rushing to his face when Lestrade looked back at them in the rearview mirror. He smirked and went back to driving.

_Thank god he won't bloody remember this,_ John thought, shifting in his seat so he was more comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he could be with a consulting detective practically lying atop him.

"Sod off," John said at Lestrade's laughter. Soon they were rounding the corner on Baker Street, 221B's black door in sight, gold letters shining in the sunlight. Lestrade pulled up to the curb.

With as much remaining strength as he could muster, John shifted Sherlock over so he was instead leaning against the door. At the movement Sherlock let out a wine of protest, trying to latch onto John's waist with his lanky arms.

"No Sherlock, we're going to the flat now," John felt as if he was scolding a small child._ More like the consulting five-year-old._ He got out of the squad car, going around to Sherlock's side. With one swift move, he opened the door and caught Sherlock's torso as he slumped at the sudden loss of door against him. He reached around, unlatching the seatbelt. He hooked his arms under Sherlock's and hoisted him out of the car. _It would help if he wasn't so damn tall,_ thought John as he attempted to half carry, half drag his incapacitated friend to the doorstep.

Lestrade was standing by the car, apparently enjoying John's struggles. Enjoying the scene too much, as he was filming it on his mobile.

John grew frustrated. He shifted Sherlock so he was partially held up by the door frame, John's arm supporting the rest of the detective's weight. "Greg, are you going to just stand there, filming up on your _fucking_ mobile, or are you going to try to help me carry Sherlock up the bloody stairs?" he demanded. Even though Sherlock didn't weight as much as his former comrades – considerably less in fact; he never really did eat – he sure put up a good struggle. John could feel his forehead breaking into a sweat from the short ordeal.

Under John's heavy glare, Lestrade stopped filming. He put the phone back into his pocket and went to slip Sherlock's other arm over his shoulders, bearing the weight. John opened the door, making sure they had as much room as the small door frame would allow.

"I have a feeling this might be a bit more challenging than carrying him down the stairs," Lestrade commented, looking at the stairs with a grimace.

…

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said, catching sight of Sherlock being dragged through the kitchen. John and Lestrade were doing their best not to disturb any of the detective's experiments on the way to his bedroom. Well, John was; he knew how important they were to his friend, no matter how much space they took up or how weird they seemed.

They made it to Sherlock's room, depositing him on the bed. Both John and Lestrade had broken a sweat. They stood resting for a moment.

John cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said extending his hand toward Lestrade. They shook, and Lestrade nodded his head once before turning to leave.

John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock. His eyelids drooped, and he looked back at John with glazed eyes. Unconsciously, the army doctor reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair away from Sherlock's forehead. He closed his eyes at John's touch, letting out a sigh.

Mrs. Hudson hovered by the door. "Will you be needing anything, dear?" she asked sweetly. "If you're going to sleep in here, would you like me to fetch another blanket?"

"No – I . . . we're . . ." John stammered. He stopped himself and sighed. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he offered her a small smile.

"It's all right. I'm just downstairs if you need me then," she said, leaving John alone with the detective. He glanced around the room. John hadn't been in Sherlock's bedroom before. _Well why would I have?_ John thought automatically.

The walls were covered with monochromatic patterned wallpaper in a dark, sage green. The baseboard was white, while the wood flooring was oak. There was his bed, of course. The wood was darker than the floorboards. He recognized the framed piece above the headboard as a Judo certificate. _Sherlock has a Judo certificate? Interesting._ There was also a framed periodic table on the same wall as the window. Following the perimeter of the room, John saw numerous other photos and portraits as well. A shelf filled with various oddities and things was tucked in the corner behind a floor lamp. Sherlock had a stereo across from the foot of the bed. To the left of the bed was a dresser with a mirror above it, and a bedside table. Another small lamp sat atop it.

Compared to the living room and kitchen, with experiments, files, and other things strewn about, Sherlock's bedroom seemed less cluttered; more unlived in. The man never slept much, and he was usually in John's company.

His thoughts were halted when a hand brushed across his wrist. John looked over to see Sherlock reaching for his hand. John took his hand in both of his own; Sherlock's fingers were warmer than he expected with his usual cold personality.

The detective's eyes closed again, and he was finally asleep. John got up and wrapped the sheets around Sherlock, wondering why he didn't have a proper comforter. His hand lingered on Sherlock's shoulder, the thing fabric of the sheet cool beneath his hand. John caught himself almost staring at Sherlock. The normal condescending look that adorned his face was gone, in its place the relaxed look of sleep. His dark hair contrasted with the light colored pillowcase it fell upon; the red of the forming scab on his cheek from where John punched him stood out on his pale face. Something about the vulnerability of the scene made him keep looking.

John tore his eyes away from his flat mate. He sat back down on the bed. In his sleep, Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile. He stayed there for a while, comforted by the fact that Sherlock was safe now. He kept a vigilant watch for a while before sleep closed in on him. John then got up and walked out of Sherlock's room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Sitting in his chair in the living room, he allowed himself to rest, all the while keeping an ear out for Sherlock, should he need his help.


End file.
